


take me, from the hands of the sea

by youatemytailor



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Feelings, M/M, all poetry is gay i dont make the rules, beowulf is gay, discussions of poetry, like a lot of feelings, silver wants to whisk everyone he loves away from the war except he can't say it outright, silverflint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youatemytailor/pseuds/youatemytailor
Summary: "You're confusing him," Madi chides, nudging Silver's elbow with her own. "Just ask him properly.""Yes, dear," Silver says, setting his glass down without taking his eyes off Flint. He looks tremendously amused. "Apologies, Captain. I should have been more clear. We're discussing whether the three of us should own one bookstore or two, after the war. Do you have a preference?"There's a pause. "Uh," Flint says.





	take me, from the hands of the sea

**Author's Note:**

> guess what nerds, all ancient poems are now gay. set shortly after silver returns from the dead

Flint feels, of all things, relaxed. It's odd.

He's not in the sort of environment that ordinarily relaxes him, sitting in the dark with other people. But his bones feel loose with victory and exhaustion; the battle in the square has left him sated in a way he hasn't felt in years. He's distantly aware that he let his eyes drift shut a while ago, and strangely enough he can't bring himself to be too bothered about that, either. 

The room is warm and quiet, save for the gentle hum of conversation; Madi and Silver somewhere in the dark, whispering to one another. Flint cannot make out the words but he lets the warm timbre of their combined voices wash over him anyway, feeling grounded for it; centred, like a stone. There's a series of blissful whole minutes where Flint feels himself drifting, awash in something that could conceivably be called peace, before Madi raises her voice and says,

"That's enough, John."

Flint opens his eyes. The room is much darker than he remembers but Madi is right where he left her; seated at the opposite head of the table with her hands clasped together. Her chin is angled up to the right towards Silver, who has his back to the rest of the room. He's leaning his weight precariously against the edge of the table with his arms crossed over his chest. He turns to her, then, so that his profile is visible through a curtain of his hair, the dim blue moonlight coming through the windows dancing on his skin. 

"It may very well be enough," he murmurs, and his voice is honeyed with humour, "But we don't know, do we?"

"That's not what I meant," Madi says, and Silver's shoulders stiffen. 

"I _know_ ," he says. The abrupt change in his tone makes Flint shift in his seat, lift his head from where it was resting in a cradle of his fingers. "Could you please just indulge me for a moment? One or two?"

"I can't make this decision alone," Madi says at last, breaking an indecipherable silence. "Why don't you ask him?"

That's when Flint has to tear his eyes away from the tense set of Silver's jaw to find that Madi has caught him staring.

"He's—" Silver starts, following her gaze over his shoulder. His maudlin face brightens. "Oh. Hello. I've a question for you, Captain. I've lots of questions, actually."

"Uh," Flint says. He presses the pads of his fingers into his eye to banish the sleep that's still fogging his head, and with the other he sees the corner of Madi's mouth quirk fondly. 

"Give him a minute," she says.

Silver gives him exactly thirty seconds. Then he turns to brace his hands against the table, pinning Flint with an expectant look, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "So what do you think? One or two? How do you cast your vote?"

Flint sits up a little in his chair. "I'm afraid I've no idea what I'm voting for.”

"Ah, of course you don't. You drifted off half-way through." Silver pushes off with both hands and rounds the corner to take his seat to Madi's right. "We're voting on bookstores," he says, as he settles in, and Madi looks as though she's struggling not to roll her eyes.

"Bookstores," Flint says, and Silver hums in agreement around a mouthful of rum. "I see. And are we voting on any particular aspect of them or are we just considering their overall merits?"

"You're confusing him," Madi chides, nudging Silver's elbow with her own. "Just ask him properly."

"Yes, dear." Silver sets his glass down without taking his eyes off Flint. There's a gentle curve to his mouth. "Apologies, Captain. I should have been more clear. We're discussing whether the three of us should own one bookstore or two, after the war. Do you have a preference?"

Exhaustion still pulls at his eyelids, but Flint fights it off to stare at the both of them in disbelief. Madi and Silver look real enough. There's nothing that's off about their appearances; Silver is still sporting the split lip he earned in the skirmish, and the strand of hair that had fallen out of the knot on Madi's head still hangs loose over her cheekbone. Flint glances around at the rest of the room; the plate in front of him holds his half eaten slice of apple from dinnertime. The glass of rum he'd felt too warm to finish sits there next to it. He's not sure any of this is sufficient proof that he isn't stuck in some incomprehensible dream.

"Uh," he says, eloquently. 

"We'll give you another moment," Silver says, waving a consoling hand at him. "It's a tough call, I know. On the one hand, two stores might well be a nightmare to manage. It comes as no shock to either of you, I'm sure, that I haven't done a minute's worth of honest work in my life. I wouldn't even know where to start. So I'm hoping the two of you can take point on that; you'll do splendidly, I've no doubt." He heaves a short sigh and leans back in his seat. "I suppose I'll just have to find some other use for myself. Perhaps we could put a piano in the corner for the patrons. Did I ever tell you I'm a fairly decent pianist?"

Flint can't help himself then, and exchanges a look with Madi. She seems at peace, or at any rate resigned to this conversation; carrying the unmistakable air of someone who has been indulging this topic for far too long to stop now. Flint wants to know exactly how long, suddenly, but can't bring himself to ask.

"Is that right?" he asks instead, slanting his eyes over to Silver, who grins at him.

"Well, I'm obviously out of practice," Silver says, flexing his hand appraisingly, "But I'm sure I can pick it up again in no time."

"That's good," Flint says.

There's a beat of silence, and then Silver opens his mouth again. "Of course, on the other hand if we were to have only the one store, your literary tastes may well eventually conflict with Madi's. I've gathered that you are both a fan of Don Quixote, but have you ever discussed poetry?"

"Poetry?"

Flint thinks his voice has somehow been fundamentally altered by confusion until he realises he and Madi spoke at the same time. Now she looks about as puzzled as he feels, which is encouraging, to some extent. 

"Yes," Silver says, taking turns to look at them both to make his point. "Poetry. Disagreements over the merits of one poet over another have ruined the best of relationships. Started wars." He falters, and then rushes to continue, "Take Beowulf, for example—"

"I don't much care for Beowulf," Madi cuts in, lifting her glass to her lips. 

"Nor do I," Silver says, and he's trying to appear unaffected but it is clear from his voice that his conviction is a shade too strong, "It has too much talk of heroism for my taste. I wouldn't be surprised, however, if the Captain were to be partial to it."

Two sets of eyes turn to Flint again; one quietly hopeful, the other just quiet. "I actually—" Flint starts, and when Madi presses her mouth into a cryptic line, "I'm not much of a fan, either," he finishes. That is what he's meant to say, he suspects, and the suspicion is swiftly confirmed when Silver's face _lights up_.

"Excellent!" he says, leaning forward on his elbows eagerly, "Then we're all three of us agreed on that score. Perhaps one store will suit us just fine, then. However, we should still discuss the matter of—"

" _John_ ," Madi warns, and gives Silver's forearm a squeeze. "That's enough planning for one day."

"I disagree," Silver says, covering Madi's hand with his own before leaning back to run it through his beard, agitated, "We haven't even begun talking about an actual location. I'm not sure we'll find too many literate parties interested in our wares if we stay in Nassau. St. Augustine might be a safer bet, as far as profits are concerned. Between the two of us, the Captain and I speak enough Spanish to get us by, and I'm sure you'll pick it up very quickly if you just—"

Madi stands. It's not an angry show of force, or even a frustrated one. She just seems tired.

"I'm going to bed," she says. When Silver opens his mouth to protest, she pulls him close to press a kiss to his temple and catches Flint's eye as she does it. There's pain there, Flint thinks, in the crease of her brow, though it's gone too soon for him to be sure. "Let me know what location you choose," she murmurs, into Silver's hair, and then she's gone.

The door clicks shut behind her and the room is plunged into quiet once more. It is of a starkly different sort to the one Flint had felt when his eyes were closed. For one, Silver won't look at him now. He's fiddling with the fork beneath his fingers, his rings tapping an uneven beat against the table.

"You're making plans," Flint says, at last. He means it to sound light. He doesn't mean at all for it to be accusatory, but Silver huffs out an ugly laugh nonetheless.

"And you're not," he says. He tilts his head, watching his own hands. "Of course you're not."

After a pause, Flint leans forward. "I don't object to—"

"What? Living?" Silver looks up then, and there’s misery there, in every soft line of his face. The expression stays open, shivering and naked for a moment—and Flint feels himself pulled in by it; the frown between his brows, the faint tremble in his lip are both demanding Flint rise out of his chair, cross the room—but then Silver's face is shuttering, collapsing in on itself. “Don’t answer that,” he snaps, dropping his eyes. “I don’t want to know."

The clock in the corner chimes, reverberating in the silence. It’s well past midnight, but Flint feels too awake now. Silver's fidgeting hand only goes still when Flint takes the seat next to him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Flint murmurs on an exhale. He spreads his hand out on the table next to Silver's as if it'll help to ground the parts of him that have become unsettled. "This war, it—there's going to be casualties. I cannot construct a story to alleviate the truth of that. Though I could try, if you like."

"No," Silver says, immediately. "Don't. But tell me something." He shifts, leans slightly away from Flint to look at him in the eye. "Do you see Madi and I surviving this war?"

" _Yes_ ," Flint says without thinking, and now Silver is looking at him with an expression that is fucking _inscrutable_ so Flint leans in, aching suddenly to close the distance Silver has created, "I will do _everything_ in my power to ensure that you do, I'll—there isn't anything—there is no future here without both of you in it."

He knows it's precisely the wrong thing to say the second it leaves his mouth. Like prey caught in a trap, Flint watches with dim horror as Silver's eyes harden, and he smiles, abrasive and betrayed. 

"I see," Silver says, and Flint looks away, into the dark of the room. Silver ducks his head to catch his eye again. "And this future you speak of; are you in it at all? Do you even _want_ to be in it?"

That's the moment. That's when Flint can't keep it at bay any longer and an image flashes before him unbidden; Madi, sitting behind a counter, surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books, engulfed in their warmth. She tips her head up and and smiles at him, and Flint is walking towards her when he catches sight of Silver at the piano in the corner, laughing as he plays.

They are both young again. Much younger than they are right now; young like they are supposed to be, like the world should have allowed them to be. The sight fills Flint with a surge of joy so strong that he doesn't recognise it; doesn't know what to do with it or how to hold onto it until Silver glances over his shoulder. He's smiling. His eyes are smiling, too, brimming with a kind of honesty that he's always claimed he isn't capable of, and Flint feels himself smile back, like it's being pulled out of him, like it's against his better judgement, before a weight drops into his stomach and rips it away, leaving him cold and shaking and hollow.

The thought that follows is inescapably clear;  _I know better than to want something like that._

Flint opens his eyes. He can't remember shutting them. Their bodies are curved towards one another now and Silver's face is too close; and he's old again, worse yet he's quiet and _curious_ and Flint finds himself unable to speak under the scrutiny. Before long Silver's face shifts, unwinds into something far worse. 

"I've changed my mind," he says quietly. "I want you to lie to me."

Flint starts to draw back. "I'm sorry—I don't know that I can—"

" _Lie_ ," Silver begs, and then his hand is snaking around the back of Flint's neck, and he's pressing his mouth to Flint's.

Flint is dreaming again. He's sure he is. But then Silver fists his other hand into the front of his shirt, tugs him forward as if to shake him out of it, and Flint feels something in him break in half. Truth spills out, simple and fearless, and he rushes to give back in kind; he grips the side of Silver's jacket, kneads his fingers into the muscle above Silver's knee, and they sway back and forth like the tide. They are breathless when they finally part, struggling to align themselves with a world that has been changed, while the night sits quiet around them, stuck amber-still in time. 

"Beowulf was a king," Silver whispers, after an age. He's resting his forehead against the run of Flint's brow and the pad of his thumb is ghosting over Flint's cheekbone, dragging lower to cup his jaw. "Well-loved, followed in friendship, not fear. Before him stood a dragon. He had scant regard for it as a threat, no dread at all of its courage or strength. For Beowulf had kept going often in the past, through perils and ordeals of every sort. That was his way, his heathenish hope; deep in his heart he remembered hell."

The world is still the same, Flint thinks, fiercely. He shifts in his seat, tries to create some distance, only Silver doesn't release him, if anything he holds on tighter. And Flint has to bite back a groan when Silver's hand trails up to graze over the shorn hairs on his head, as he pulls Flint close to lean into his ear to speak, his voice low and reverent, and pleading, "Through slaughter-reek strode Wiglaf to his chief, his battle helm borne, brief words he spoke; I am far more fain the fire should seize, along with my lord these limbs of mine. Beowulf, dearest, with all thy strength, shield thy life; I'd rather burn than see flames swirling around thee."

There is only silence again, save for their shared breath. It is of a different sort altogether.

"You're misquoting that," Flint says, hoarsely. 

Silver sighs, drops his forehead to the jut of Flint's shoulder. "That's not the fucking point," he says.

There's a beat, before Flint brings his hand to the nape of Silver's neck. He pulls him back just far enough to look at him in the eye. "Perhaps the one store will be enough," Flint says, and hesitates before he lifts a strand of hair from the side of Silver's face, and brushes it over his ear.

Silver blinks, looks like he's about to speak. Instead surges forward to kiss Flint again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i love their love. find me on [tumblr](https://annevbonny.tumblr.com) for more senseless silverflint screaming.
> 
> oh and also. nobody actually read the end of beowulf, please.


End file.
